Different Battlefields
by dumpling47
Summary: One-shot, Johnlock. John isn't the only one with war wounds. Rated T for self-harm.


_**I've been reading a lot of similar fics on AO3 and wanted to have a go at writing one, especially since this topic resonates with a lot of people. I know I've been yo-yo-ing between super fluffy fics and super angsty ones, so I apologize if this isn't your cup of tea. This story wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it, though, so I'm doing this for myself, if anything. *Curls up in ball in corner***_

**Trigger warning:**** self-harm**

* * *

"Sherlock, you'll die of heatstroke if you don't lose a few of those layers."

John hadn't even meant for his warning to sound suggestive, though he wasn't averse to the wording. He was, however, genuinely worried about his flatmate's welfare. It was a record temperature for the year, and the middle of July, to boot. The AC had broken down awhile back and the repairmen were booked for another two days, at least. Point being, it was positively humid and Sherlock was lazing about in his pyjamas and dressing-gown, not a single limb exposed. A feverish sweat was plastered to his forehead and it looked as though it were all he could do just to lie there, much less do anything.

"Sherlock."

"I think I'll take a cold shower," Sherlock said, promptly getting up from the sofa and making to leave the room.

"Care for me to join you?" John asked, arching an eyebrow.

Sherlock shook his head. "Another time," he said quietly, exiting the room and leaving John thoroughly baffled.

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. Ever since they'd started dating, Sherlock had been oddly secretive. Well, no ... maybe that wasn't the word. He seemed possessive, somehow, but of himself rather than of another person. For example, he always declined when John wanted to shower with him. They'd had sex, certainly, and it was wonderful, but Sherlock always insisted on keeping his own shirt on. And most of the time they made love in the dark, or at the very least when the lights were dimmed.

And then there was today, with it being ridiculously hot out and Sherlock not removing a stitch of clothing. It just wasn't _practical_, and it gave John cause to wonder.

_Was Sherlock ashamed of his body?_

The idea just seemed so bizarre. John knew that, despite appearances, Sherlock wasn't as sure of himself as he liked to pretend ... but he wasn't modest, either. So why did he cover up, hide himself away, from his lover, of all people?

John felt an odd combination of sadness at the idea as well as annoyance. What did someone as beautiful and elegant as Sherlock Holmes have to feel ashamed about, to hide? John had been fully naked in front of him a number of times, and he himself felt he had more cause to feel such an emotion. He felt so small and ordinary sometimes, and he had his war wound, a disturbingly present scar on his shoulder. But Sherlock had been more than supportive.

"Wear it like a badge, John," he'd said. "A badge of courage."

Surely Sherlock knew John would reciprocate in such support? Whatever Sherlock was feeling insecure about, John would be there for him. He would help him in the best way he knew how.

Assuming John's theory was correct, of course.

John finally made up his mind to discuss this matter with his friend once he was out of the shower. Maybe once he'd cooled off a little, he'd be more willing to talk.

* * *

Sherlock emerged half an hour later, his hair freshly combed and wearing what looked to be a new suit. John couldn't help but admire how the jacket hugged the curve of his backside, how the trousers left nothing about his arse to the imagination ... and wondered for the umpteenth time how Sherlock, who was physically blessed beyond decency, couldn't be bothered to show himself off a little, even to his love.

It was funny, really - John had never actually seen Sherlock's backside, or his shoulders, or even his upper arms, but he could imagine very well what they must look like. Slender muscles against pale porcelain skin, the tapered waist, oh, God, those erect nipples ...

"You're aroused," Sherlock said simply, pulling John out of his reverie.

"Of course I'm aroused," John said, used to Sherlock's forwardness and responding in kind. "You're standing right in front of me!"

The detective allowed a small flush to color his cheeks. "Well, we can't do much about it now. I've just dressed."

"The heat's dying down," John said - and really, it was. Thank God.

"I suppose it is."

"Sherlock," John said, remembering his plan, "Can I tell you something?"

"Yes," Sherlock said simply. "Of course, John."

"Sit down."

Sherlock huffed good-naturedly and sat in his customary chair. John kneeled in front of him and placed a hand on Sherlock's trouser knee. He wanted Sherlock to realize how serious what he was about to say was.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?"

"John, I -"

"Sherlock."

"When you tell me that ... I believe it," Sherlock said, smiling thinly. He was flattered, but he didn't like where things were going. He could sense this was something more than John singing his praises.

"What I'm trying to figure out is - if you believe it when you're with me, why do you insist on covering up? Why don't you share yourself - your body - with me?" John knew he was being blunt, and he could see Sherlock visibly shifting in his chair. "I thought maybe you were ashamed of your body, or something - or didn't feel that you could trust me with it - and I want you to know that you can - absolutely, entirely. Okay? I just wanted to tell you that."

Sherlock's jaw was hard, his eyes unseeing.

"Sherlock?"

The detective placed one of his long hands on John's smaller one, holding it tight for some moments. He then stood up and proceeded to remove his suit coat, followed by his silk shirt, tossing both to the floor unceremoniously.

John, eyes fixing themselves on Sherlock's torso, was utterly taken aback. He had never, not once, expected _this_.

Sherlock's shoulders, upper arms, and sides with covered in white scars that nonetheless shone very prominently against his skin. Some were small, others were very long and deep. There were also a number of scars from what looked to be cigarette burns. Some of the flesh was even scalded, in such a way that it was very clear Sherlock hadn't been in any accident.

These wounds were self-inflicted.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Well?"

John felt tears sting his eyes - not of pity, but of complete and utter sadness. That at some point in his best friend and lover's life, he'd felt that he had to do this. To hurt himself to such an extent.

"Why, Sherlock?" John finally gasped out. "Why?"

"Loneliness," Sherlock said, his deep voice trembling ever-so slightly. "I was alone, John, in every sense of the word. Misunderstood. It was the only way I could cope."

The dam broke; a great, heaving sob escaped John's chest. He was in no way prepared for this. Sherlock Holmes had everything so_together_. Sherlock Holmes was the master of emotional detachment.

And yet, Sherlock Holmes stood before him, covered in battle scars of a different kind.

"I cannot even imagine the pain you must have been going through," John said, composing himself as best he could. "Must be going through."

"No, John. Not anymore, I promise."

"Does anyone else know?"

"Only Mycroft and my mother. I went too far one night and was taken to hospital." Sherlock frowned deeply. "I hated seeing Mummy so upset, so I stopped then."

"How old were you?"

"Seventeen."

"But you turned to drugs soon after ... right?"

"Yes."

It was all one supreme effort to escape. Sherlock had never felt as though he belonged, as though he were cared for, as though he had someone he could confide in. None of it. Somehow, John knew all this without even asking.

"You said you didn't feel this way anymore," John said.

"That would be correct. I have you, John."

"And I will make sure you never, ever feel this way again," John promised, a hard edge to his voice. He felt angry, possessive, desperate to take care of Sherlock. He knew his friend pretended to be strong, even when he wasn't feeling it, probably most of the time. Hell, he was likely feigning such a thing right now.

The army doctor pulled Sherlock in close and hugged him tight. He felt similar scars on Sherlock's backside and for that hugged him even tighter. Sherlock's arms eventually wound around John's frame, and they fell into each other, drawing in as much strength and support from one another as possible.

"My scars," Sherlock said, puling away while continuing to hold John close, "They're not brave ones, like yours."

"That's not true," John insisted. "They're different from mine. We fought different battles, but each battle was hard. Each battle might've broken us, but you know what? We're still here. We're still fighting." John stood on his tiptoes and planted a kiss on Sherlock's full lips. "Remember what you said once, Sherlock? About my war wound? 'Wear it like a badge of courage'. That's how I want you to wear your scars. They're not proof that you're a coward, or unable to deal with feelings. They're proof that you pulled through - that you survived."

Sherlock's chin quivered very slightly, and, just like that, his eyes became glassy with tears. He blinked them away quickly, but it was enough - John could see decades of pain (and perhaps the more recent moments of relief) in those eyes, all within a few seconds.

"I love you, John Watson," he said, pressing in closer and clinging tight, more desperate for affection than ever.

"I love you, too, Sherlock," John said, holding fast to that trembling frame.

It had grown very late. John directed Sherlock up to the bedroom, holding him tight and loving him all the more for his confession.

Perhaps that was why they'd needed each other, all along. They both understood each other, in a way - physically as well as emotionally. It didn't matter that in most other aspects they were polar opposites. They had something very important in common, and that mutual understanding led to a great desire to take care of one another.

Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of John's elbow. His breathing slowed, and within minutes he was asleep, so very childlike and vulnerable, and yet so safe in John's arms.

John ran a hand through Sherlock's curls, smiling faintly as he himself drifted off to sleep. He still felt an entire conglomerate of emotions - fear and anger and sadness and shock. Most importantly, though, he felt pride. He was so proud of how courageous Sherlock had been. Now that they both knew each other's deepest hidden pains, they could stand by each other and be truly unstoppable.

John didn't even care if the thought sounded cliched. By this point, his heart was bursting with gratitude and he wouldn't have traded those moments with Sherlock for anything else.

_Like a badge of courage,_ he thought to himself as his eyes finally closed.


End file.
